by Van Reid
“I have my ticket,” said Sundry, his arms folded before him and his expression a perfect composite of the amused and the doubtful.
She reached out and squeezed his hand, which was meant as a tacit expression of “Good luck.”
Late arrivals hurried by, crossing paths with those who had said their farewells and were now returning to the wharf. There was often a festive atmosphere about the docks when a steamship arrived or departed, particularly on such a handsome summer day, when the sea breeze perfectly complemented the strength of the sun and the gulls and terns wheeled noisily overhead. The salt air itself invigorated a body, and the general bustle of the wharves lent constant interest to the eye.
But the attention of the Moosepath League, and of Sundry Moss, was wholly upon the Waltons as they mounted the gangplank, and Mister and Mrs. Walton’s attention was almost wholly, and quite pardonably, upon each other. Happy as he was for them both, Sundry felt very mixed emotions to see them go; he thought himself a little adrift when he considered the weeks and maybe months ahead without the steady presence of his friend and employer and the happy wryness and wisdom of Phileda McCannon. And the June Ball, so quickly approaching, was of more consequence to him, and therefore answerable for more anxiety, than he would have admitted to anyone.
“I do believe they are the picture of a handsome couple,” said Ephram when the newlyweds reached the top of the plank and waved again. It was a phrase he had read in a book not long ago.
Sundry and the members of the club returned the wave.
“You are very right, my friend,” said Eagleton. “Don’t you think, Thump?”
“Hmmm,” said Thump. He lowered his bearded visage, as if in thought, then raised his head again and said, “‘They would benefit each acquaintance (and even the brief passerby) with their gracious mien and warm their surroundings by the kindness and happiness of their coupled tendencies.’” Thump let this quote hang in the air before citing its source. “The Rose Beneath the Street, by Mrs. Rudolpha Limington Harold.”
“Ah, yes!” said Ephram. “That was a fine story. And how very right.” He could believe that these words were crafted to describe their departing friends.
Sundry took a moment to regard these men with whom his lot had been so unpredictably cast. They, too, had about them the wisdom of kindness and would never have guessed that the quote from Mrs. Harold might well describe themselves. They were, in fact (in their own way), as steady company as a person could want. Sundry felt a sudden confidence regarding Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump. It was as if the couple on the deck above them had indeed left behind a sense of warmth and grace, and that those left upon the wharf would know what to do simply by imagining what Tobias and Phileda Walton would have done in their place.
The steamship let out another whistle, and the final call was shouted from the deck. A bell rang. The air grew cacophonous with good-byes and last-minute instructions between those leaving and those staying behind. The Waltons did not attempt any communications beyond the occasional wave. A new and unexpected source of noise had risen from the other side of the wharf, and their attention was increasingly taken by something beyond the crowd.
Sundry was aware of a cheer and a chorus of laughter. A voice carried over the general din. He could not at first make out the words, but he was surprised, as he peered past and above the heads in the crowd, to see the paddle end of a great long oar rise like a sprout in the air. Beside him, Eagleton was getting a little better look, and Ephram almost as good a view, but Thump was standing on his tiptoes and seeing little or nothing past the swarm of people. There was more laughter as the oar was lowered and several people were obliged to move aside. Sundry glimpsed a vast bear of a man, unshaven, with ruddy cheeks, blond hair cast behind his ears, and a cap tilted precariously at the back of his head. The big fellow was carrying a haversack in one hand and that great sweep of an oar over his shoulder.
The fellow stalked through the crowd, and folks leaped aside till there was only the Moosepath League standing in the way and Thump at their center, leaning forward and looking amazed.
“I don’t expect anything this close,” growled the sailor, but he looked like a man not ready to take anything by chance.
“I beg your pardon?” said Thump. Ephram and Eagleton stepped closer to their friend. Sundry watched from a pace or two away, a little less daunted than the members of the club, but not entirely at his ease. “Can I be of assistance, sir?” said Thump.
“He’s looking for Fiddler’s Green, man!” shouted someone.
The wharf grew almost quiet, while Thump pondered this news. “I’ve never been,” he admitted.
There was a roar of laughter from several sailors in the crowd, but the immense fellow before Thump seemed to consider it a serious business. “Fiddler’s Green,” he declared, as if reading from a stone, “is a form of Paradise; that is, Heaven; that is, anyplace that won’t starve you, burn your hide, or freeze parts that you might be needing in port. Fiddler’s Green takes some wandering to find, and there’s only one way of knowing it. Throw an oar over your shoulder—”
“I do beg your pardon,” said Thump again for no obvious reason.
“Take that oar with you wherever you go,” continued the sailor, “and wherever you go, you go as far from the sea as the sea will allow (when you leave the sea, you’ll find the sea if you go far enough, if you take my meaning), and you roam with that oar till you come to a place where they ask to look at it, and they peer at it, and they consider it, and they ask you what it is.”
“Do they really?” said Thump. He was astonished.
“And then you’ve found it,” said the fellow. “Fiddler’s Green!” He patted Thump’s back as if they had been friends all their lives. Thump looked as stiff as if he were expecting snow down his neck. Once again hefting his haversack and swinging his oar back over his shoulder (expertly missing several onlookers’ heads by mere inches), the big man strode toward the street without further word or even a good-bye to his newfound confidant.
“Be sure to write, Robin!” shouted one wag, and the sailor simply raised a hand and waved.
The sound of the gangplank being lifted drew everyone’s attention back to the Manitoba and a new volley of sentiments flew between the deck and the wharf. Sundry spotted the Waltons a little further up the rail, and he waved. Mrs. Walton looked elegant, waving her newly purchased scarf. It was the brightest scarf or kerchief on display, and there were many. Mister Walton took off his glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief. Sundry knew that his friend was feeling a potent mix of emotions. Mister Walton had beside him his new and beloved wife, he was steaming to Halifax to meet his nephew, he was by nature a forward-thinking and optimistic fellow; but he was waving good-bye to his friends. Life is unpredictable.
Sundry sighed—a strange thing to hear from him if anyone had been able to hear it among the noise of the crowd and the rumble of the Manitoba. He saw that Mrs. Walton was gesturing at her side, patting her waist, and without thinking Sundry touched his own waist and then put his hand in his coat pocket and felt a folded piece of paper there.
He nodded to her. She seemed satisfied and turned away. When the tugs were escorting the steamship into the harbor channel, Sundry took the piece of paper from his pocket and read it.
I did not want to say anything in front of Toby, it read, but I am concerned that the business regarding that mysterious keg is not finished and that you have been left to deal with its sequel by yourself Please take care and do not put yourself in the way of any trouble. Thank you for your friendship and particularly for your companionship with Toby. We will be anxious for our return to Portland and to our friends. Affectionately, Phileda.
from the Eastern Argus June 7, 1897
SEA AND SHORE
Various Happenings of Interest Along the Wharves
A smokey souwester was holding forth on the waterfront yesterday afternoon and it blew so hard that many of the people who were enjoying their us
ual Sunday stroll along the wharves had considerable difficulty in keeping their headgear in place. The surface of the harbor was dotted with whitecaps and very few of the numerous crafts that were flitting about carried full sail. The Thomson liner Iona was expected to arrive but she had not been sighted at dark.
There was not much in the way of business, it being Sunday. The only English steamer in port was the Vancouver, so a good deal of talk along the wharves ran in the direction of that vessel, the officers and crew of which were kept busy during the afternoon receiving visitors. Others spoke of the Manitoba, which left port on Saturday, and some speculated where she might be, a day out.
Talk of another kind centered on a peculiar apparition of the day before, which ascended the Atlantic and St. Lawrence Wharf at about the same moment the Manitoba, was steaming from the harbor. A large fellow—something of a giant, claimed observers—appeared in the crowd and was pretty hard to miss as he added to the height of his general person by his possession of an oar, the size of which itself would have done justice to Cleopatra’s barge. He carried the sweep like a baseball bat over his shoulder and was last seen, by the wharfside walkers, peering one way, then the other, along Commercial Street, before striding away in a westerly direction.
The large four master Wm. B. Palmer arrived from Philadelphia yesterday with a cargo of coal for the Maine Central Railroad....
BOOK TWO MRS. MORRELL’S
ANNUAL JUNE BALL
June 8, 1897
13. Picking the Principals
Every spring, Philbrook Newcomb Morrell returned to Portland long enough to see his family properly situated in their mansion on Vaughan Street and to attend his wife’s annual charitable ball, held on the second Tuesday in June. Only a few servants kept house during the off-season, but all year long the mansion that Philbrook’s father had built captured the passing eye with its Italianate architecture and faÇade of unusual red-brown stone. The return of the Morrell clan was always duly noted in the papers, and at the first rumor of the approaching festivities, Portland matrons began to nose about the shops (or even foray to Boston) for the latest fashions in which to deck their marriageable daughters.
The Morrells had been away since fall, and letters from Portland may have neglected salient details of local gossip, such as the engagement of Cordelia Elizabeth, the daughter of James and Mercia Underwood, to one Dresden Ebuelon Scott of Millinocket. The Underwoods were respectable, if quiet, people in local society, their daughter thought to be unfortunately red of hair by the mothers of other daughters and a beautiful redhead by the sons of those mothers. The mothers clucked their tongues and said, “Wasn’t it nice that the Underwood girl found someone?” and the sons shook their heads and wondered how the fellow could be so lucky. The daughters, on the whole, liked Cordelia, for she was a bright creature with a contagious sense of fun and a ready gift of laughter; but they were not sorry to see the field of competition narrowed.
It was not only Cordelia’s beauty but also the romantic origins of her fiancé (and the tale of their affair) that made them the center of curiosity. Mr. Scott was a woodsman and a guide who called the trackless forests his home. The previous summer he had rescued Cordelia from abduction (with some help from the young woman herself, who knocked one of her kidnappers senseless with an iron ladle). There had been vague statements in the papers and much talk, but all that most people knew (or thought they knew) was that buried treasure had been involved and that the scheme of modern-day pirates foiled.
Now word was about town that those attending the Morrell Charitable Ball would have their first and perhaps only look at the mysterious groom before the wedding day. Adding to the anticipation of this year’s ball was another rumor that the recently formed gentlemen’s club known as the Moosepath League would be in attendance. The brief history of this club involved several extraordinary adventures, which were said to encompass (among other things) an escaped circus bear, the rescue of a police officer from a falling piano, and even the affair of Cordelia Underwood herself.
The weather had been cooperative during the first week of June, but clouds gathered on the morning of the eighth; the harbor became squally, and the streets of the city wet with rain. Those gathering at the Morrells’ were undaunted; umbrellas were furled, wet wraps and coats and men’s hats doffed to servants in the hall, and the bright chandeliers and music in the ornate ballroom warmed away all thoughts of inclement weather. The musicians were already playing when the first guests arrived.
While greeting their guests at the front door, Philbrook and Tabitha Morrell were conscious of an unspecified excitement this evening, and naturally curious about it—never more so then when a young lady waiting at the door hurried to the ballroom to announce that the Underwoods had arrived. “This is the beau, behind them, with their daughter, I suppose,” said Philbrook. Mr. Morrell was an affable man, with large handlebar mustaches and a graying head of hair. “Who’s that behind them?”
“It’s Mrs. Underwood’s sister, Grace Morningside. Her husband, Henry, captained the Sea Beard, you remember. They’re from Ellsworth.”
“Ah, yes. He died a few years ago, I think.”
“That’s their daughter, Priscilla, with Grace.”
Six people were mounting the steps during this quiet dialogue, and Philbrook put a hand out to James Underwood. “Philbrook,” said James, “you know my wife, Mercia, and my daughter, Cordelia. This is my daughter’s fiancé, Dresden Scott.”
The host greeted Mrs. Underwood, who was elegant and charming, and he mentally marked his dance card as he took her hand. Then he turned to the daughter. “Miss Underwood.”
“Mr. Morrell.” Cordelia looked like the very emblem of summer in her green gown and with her beautiful red hair piled up in the latest fashion. She fairly glowed, and Mr. Morrell was much affected.
He was a man of commerce, however, and used to playing with a poker face; he turned to the prospective groom without revealing his reluctance to leave off the hand of this beauty. “Mr. Scott,” he said, “I have been hearing great tales about you all week.”
Dresden Scott, a tall blond fellow with a beard and the look of little experience in a formal suit, shook the hand of Philbrook Morrell and said dryly, “I try to stay out of the court news, sir.”
Philbrook liked this and was about to say something when his wife introduced herself to the much-talked-about Dresden Scott. The host, in turn, greeted Grace and Priscilla Morningside.
Grace was a wispy woman who would have been handsome if she had smiled more easily. Her daughter (who did smile softly) was mild and diffident; Priscilla was neither as effervescent nor as obviously beautiful as her cousin Cordelia, but she had lovely raven black hair and intelligent dark eyes behind her round spectacles. Her features were a shade too long, perhaps, but there was something pleasant and even sweet about her, and beneath this sweetness, Philbrook (who was a sympathetic old Yankee) sensed a hint of melancholy.
What she did possess was a brimful of figure, for if Cordelia was a willow, Miss Morningside had the requisite portions to do justice to the fashions of the day, and she was wearing (with visible uncertainty) a dress that made this fact obvious. Mr. Morrell guessed, however, that many a swain would rush past this young woman for the chance to waltz with other, more confident flowers, but he thought they would miss something for not cluttering Miss Morningside’s dance card with their names.
Philbrook had a diversion he practiced wherever he went; he called it Picking the Principals, and it had come from a lesson he had been given as a schoolboy by an exacting professor of literature. The schoolboy had made a game of it, and since that lesson, whenever he was among a crowd of people, he tried to imagine the story that was taking place around him—though he himself might command only a bit part—and for this story he picked the principals. The object of the game was to eschew the obvious and find the players who would sneak up on the reader of a novel or the audience at a play.
It is the prerogative of
a woman to shake hands or demur. Grace Morningside, who was herself dressed in a dark gown that did no injury to a determined widowhood, only inclined her head and, with a look toward her daughter, gave Philbrook the impression that she expected Priscilla to do likewise. The daughter hesitated but offered her hand while Mr. Morrell welcomed her to his home. “Thank you,” she said, and made something very pretty and graceful with a slight curtsy. She had become his first principal of the evening. Several more were in the offing.
Four gentlemen stepped from a carriage at the gate, and among them was a short, stocky fellow with an extraordinary profusion of beard who prompted an elusive recognition in Philbrook’s mind. The host moved out onto the bricks above the front steps, protected from the rain by the portico roof, and he watched as this quartet quickly traveled the front walk. Philbrook was searching his tongue for the bearded fellow’s name when a new announcement ran from the front hall of the Morrell mansion to the ballroom; the news was relayed in stage whispers: “The Moosepath League is here!” The four men had reached the steps by this time, and the waiting host, with sudden recollection, called out, “Joseph Thump!”
The bearded guest halted and peered up the steps. “Mr. Morrell!”
“Philbrook, please. Good heavens, it’s been years!” The host braved the rain to meet Mr. Thump halfway down the steps and accompany him and his fellows to the door. “And what is this I hear about you and your club jaunting about the state, rescuing people and fighting fires? Philbrook Morrell,” he said, when they were out of the rain, and he offered his hand to a tall, blond fellow, who pumped Philbrook’s hand with great enthusiasm.
“Mr. Moss!” came a delighted cry, and Cordelia Underwood ran onto the porch, saying, “Oh, Mr. Moss!” and pressing one of the other men’s hands in hers. “You must tell me all about the wedding! Was Miss McCannon very beautiful?”
